


Withered

by ab2fsycho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:22:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab2fsycho/pseuds/ab2fsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back. John is not pleased with him. Or himself.</p><p>Moran finally gets his chance to avenge Moriarty</p><p>Help and advice from friends and such.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Withered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This is my first fic. This could get interesting. It was formerly posted on Deviantart, but I am officially moving it hither. Subsequent chapters will follow.
> 
> This was my dearest friend xIrelandx 's Christmas present. Now everyone should enjoy it with her.
> 
> Also, the title is actually a song by Atomship.

John stared at the face of the man who had forcibly reentered his life after having been gone for so long. Well, it had seemed a long time. So long that John hadn't even recognized him when he first looked at him. All he'd known was that there was a man in his apartment, a man who stood about a head taller than him, a man who was, to say the least, uninvited. John had started off shouting, waving his cane, threatening the man standing in front of his chair. He didn't dare say the name of his former flatmate who used to occupy said chair at 221B Baker Street, but John still maintained that that chair was not to be touched by anyone, not even himself. And this stranger dared even glimpse at it. John had raised his fist, wishing that he'd actually kept his handgun on his person. Then the stranger had turned around, and John had stopped dead in his tracks upon glimpsing those all too familiar icy eyes.

Those eyes. Those eyes, that face, that curly nap that was supposed to be hair. It was a lot shorter than John remembered it. That face, though. Those cheekbones, those lips, all of it he remembered. John stopped breathing, his heart stopped beating, his hands started trembling. Was this a hallucination? Were these waking dreams seeping into the daytime now, no longer confined to the eerie night? He stared at the figure, the man. No, John thought. This can't be him. It never was him. It never will be him again. 

Then the apparition spoke, "John?"

One word. One single-syllable word proved to be John's undoing. As John's stomach curled and his insides twisted, he had to bite his bottom lip to fight the onslaught of emotions that surged upwards within him. He couldn't speak. He couldn't even begin to murmur the name. He couldn't say his name. Every time he did, the apparition fled his vision and John was left alone again.

He stepped forward, his hand outstretched as though he were desperate to make contact with John. "John," he said again. John's name on those lips tore through him like a bullet. He closed his eyes, trying to make it through this horrifyingly real haunting. "John, are you alright?" Then he, the world's only consulting detective, the man who'd told John that he had been lying to him since the day they'd met, the man who jumped off a building and died in front of him, touched John's cheek. It was then that John knew that this wasn't an apparition. This was Sherlock Holmes. 

John's cane fell from his hand as his whole body went stiff. His hands were steady, and his unsettled guts turned cold. His eyes shot open, full of unshed tears. Without blinking, John's fist ripped through the air and collided with Sherlock's face. His knuckles stung from the impact, and the sound of Sherlock crumpling to the floor was enough to remind him of all the pain, all the rage, all the nightmares he had endured alone. He had been alone ever since Sherlock had fallen from the top of St. Bart's. He had been completely and utterly alone, and it was all he could do not to throttle the man lying in a heap before him for it.

Sherlock went to stand up, his fingers brushing a bloody lip. This only angered John more as the ex-army doctor kicked the blasted cane away and yanked Sherlock upward by the lapels of his jacket. It was not the same jacket he had once worn. It was gray and short, but John wished that it was his old jacket. He'd tear it apart and choke Sherlock with that bloody blue scarf he used to wear all the time. As years' worth of withheld tears streamed from John's eyes, John shouted, "Where have you been?" He glared at Sherlock, the left side of the detective's face beet-red from the right hook with which John had welcomed him. That wasn't what made the tears run faster, though. What made John cry more was the fact that Sherlock's expression was one of hurt. John had truly hurt Sherlock. But John couldn't—no, wouldn't—stop to accept that there was actually emotion lying beneath that face. That face, which had been so pristine and expressionless save for the occasional outburst of rage or the even rarer bout of laughter, could not and was not allowed to show pain. Still that face, now that blood was slipping from the fattened lip and down the chin, had become delicate when it had never seemed so before. John hated this face. This face was not the face he remembered, and he couldn't accept that it may have changed and yet was still that same. Not after what that face had put John through. "Answer me!"

"John . . .," Sherlock tried to butt in.

"No, don't you dare," John choked for a moment as he shoved Sherlock onto the floor. "Don't you dare say my name. Don't give me any excuses. Don't even tell me that you had a brilliant bloody plan for the past three years you've been gone." John drew back a fist, then punched Sherlock in the stomach. Sherlock coughed, his hands curling against his chest as he tried to roll over. John shoved him back onto his back though, forcing him to look John in the eye. "Tell me where you've been!" the doctor ordered. His hands gripped Sherlock's lapels and yanked the detective upward and closer to him. "Tell me why!"

"To save you," Sherlock snapped, out of breath and weary from John's assault. John dropped Sherlock onto his back, stood up, and stalked away from him. He rested his forearm and forehead on the wall beside the mantelplace, closing his eyes and facing away from Sherlock as he leaned. His head began to rush as Sherlock continued, "Moriarty had his men poised to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. What did you expect me to do?"

John sighed, his breath stuttering as he did so. "And I suppose you set out for said men and took care of them." Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't have to. It was very much Sherlock's fashion to work alone. John listened, sighing as Sherlock stood up slowly. He could hear the detective panting from the pain of having had the air knocked out of him. "Oh quit it. You must've suffered worse injuries," John grumbled inaudibly. 

"John, I couldn't tell you," Sherlock started. "I wanted to tell you so many times—."

John became infuriated once more, whipped around on Sherlock, and dragged him by his jacket so that he was pressed against the wall. Sherlock's body slammed into the plaster as he gave in to John's violence, acting much like a horror-stricken, agonized ragdoll as he was splayed against the wall before John. John then shouted, "Three years! I've been living alone for three years. You have no idea what sort of pain I've been in. My limp returned. Everywhere I went, everything I saw, everyone we used to know, all of it reminded me of my time spent with you. I couldn't speak to anyone, not Greg, not Mycroft, not Molly, hardly even Mrs. Hudson and she's my landlady—."

"Our landlady—."

"Then where have you been, if she's your landlady, too?" John cried. He gazed into Sherlock's face, expecting to hear retorts, get a rise out him, make him fight back for God's sake. But Sherlock didn't. He sulked. It wasn't even the sulk that John remembered. This sulk was . . . sadder. Much, much sadder. John could've sworn there was the slightest sheen in Sherlock's eyes that betrayed just how deeply John had hurt him. Only then did John's grip on Sherlock's jacket loosen. As if on cue, Sherlock jammed his eyes shut, realizing exactly what his feelings were doing in John's presence. "Sherlock . . .," John said his name for the first time. His breath faltered before he continued to speak, "Sherlock, I had a right to know that you were still alive. I begged for it—."

"Well you have your bloody miracle now," Sherlock's voice was harsh and exasperated, his arms dropping to his sides as he slumped against John's loosened grip. "I see it was given far too late."

John's cold insides scrunched again as he heard the slightest waver in Sherlock's voice. It was then that a tear escaped the detective's tightly closed lids. No, don't do this, John thought. Don't cry in front of me. John reached to brush the tear away, his fingers grazing the red mark on Sherlock's left cheek. When Sherlock winced, John did as well. The doctor could almost feel a divide running through his chest, driving a wedge into his still beating heart. He couldn't bear to see this man, this lunatic, his friend cry. "Please no," John pleaded. Without thinking, his hands slid around his friend's neck and pulled his head downward so he could press his lips to Sherlock's. Sherlock's whole body went from limp and sulking to rigid as John's hands tangled in the shortened curls on the detective's head. After a moment Sherlock melted against John's form, hesitating at first, then tenderly returning the kiss. This reaction unleashed a fervor within John, which took hold and demanded that John kiss Sherlock harder.

John poured all of his anger, pain, passion, and sadness into what he was doing, parting Sherlock's soft lips with his tongue. The smallest amount of blood touched John's tongue as he deepened the kiss. Sherlock responded hesitantly, but not so much so that it was awkward. When Sherlock's hands reached to grip his shoulders, John's first reaction was to press Sherlock into the wall even harder and wrap his arms around him and never let him go . . . but then Sherlock whimpered. It registered in his mind somehow that that wasn't a cry of pleasure, but one of pain. John stopped, his eyes shot open, and he stumbled backwards away from his former flatmate. John didn't know what had come over him until he realized Sherlock had just barely begun to favor the area on his stomach that John had punched. That's why he'd whined: John had mistakenly applied pressure to a wound that he'd inflicted. The taste of blood and the slickness on his lips reminded him of what he'd done even more.

Again, he felt all of his emotions crash down on him. His hands shook, his chest heaved, and  
his leg gave out. "Oh God," he cried as he collapsed on the ground in front of Sherlock. "Oh God, no."

"John?" Sherlock muttered warily, preparing to kneel and help his friend up.

"No!" John cried, reaching desperately for his cane. He hadn't kicked it very far, thankfully. As soon as he wrapped his fingers around it, he used it to get himself back on his feet. "Oh God, what have I done?"

"John, please," Sherlock uttered, reaching for him again. But it was too late. John was already shooting out the door and down the sidewalk.

∞

"Stop it!" Sherlock growled at Lestrade. The Detective Inspector had come over as soon as Mrs. Hudson had found Sherlock sitting in the same spot John had left him. He hadn't bothered moving nor seeking out a proper chair. He'd just sat on the floor and stayed there until he'd been discovered. He'd expected Mrs. Hudson to have a heart attack, but instead she simply gasped and rushed to tend his facial wound. When Lestrade showed up, Sherlock hypothesized that Mycroft had just told everyone that he was, in fact, still alive. Everyone except John, that is.

"You belligerent bastard, how the hell did you expect John to react?" Lestrade asked, trying for the hundredth time (an exaggeration, it could only be the fifth time) to check Sherlock for more injuries.

"So you expected to find me bloody and bruised? How pleasant," Sherlock snapped. He worked his jaw, which was incredibly sore from the punch.

"No, I expected to find you dead." Lestrade barked back. Then his face took on an apologetic expression as he said, "Seriously, I only expected him to punch you. I didn't expect to get a call from Mrs. Hudson that you were pouting on the floor." Sherlock zoned out as Lestrade took a closer look at Sherlock's bruised face. "Did he punch you in the mouth, too? That split came from the hook he gave you, but your lips are rather red."

Sherlock felt the blood rush to his cheeks as he remembered exactly what John had used to bruise his lips. Amazingly, the Detective Inspector actually noticed the change in Sherlock's demeanor. "Fuck, are you serious?" he blasted at Sherlock.

"I said nothing. And of course this is serious. Look at me," Sherlock retorted, not in the  
mood for stupid rhetorical questions.

"No! No, I meant—no!" Lestrade just stopped speaking, and Sherlock couldn't help but take in exactly how exasperated he was. However, he was fairly positive that Lestrade wasn't surprised by John's actions. Merely disturbed. "This is so not my division."

"Stating some more of the obvious, are we?" Sherlock could've snorted at himself if it weren't for the fact that this day wasn't exactly going the way he had planned at all. He'd expected anything and everything upon encountering John after three years, but not two punches, a slam, and a kiss almost all at once. His stomach and cheek ached at his reminding himself that John had been less than happy at seeing him alive and well. Well, he wasn't well anymore. To be frank, he was utterly shattered by John's reaction. He'd missed his friend. He'd hoped his friend had missed him in much the same way. How could he have been so foolish as to believe that John would forgive him for faking his own death, though? A streak of anxiety rushed through him as he realized just how much danger John was in, now. Because their reunion had gotten so completely out of his control, Sherlock hadn't been able to tell John that Sebastian Moran, the last of Moriarty's men, was still at large and had only recently discovered Sherlock's suicide was false. Sherlock's main reason for returning now of all times was to reassure himself that John was safe. Now he'd chased him out into the open, where anything could happen. He could be injured in any way, shape, or form and Sherlock would never forgive himself.

At that, Sherlock shot upward off the floor, only to be greeted by a fresh surge of agony in his bruised abdomen. He stumbled, then felt Lestrade catch him by the arms as he hunched over. "No sudden movements for you," the Detective Inspector grumbled as he shoved Sherlock over to the couch.

"John can't be outside," the consulting detective retorted, struggling only slightly with Lestrade. "Moran—."

"Your brother is keeping an eye on John, I'm sure," Lestrade remarked, pushing Sherlock onto the couch.

Sherlock landed in the center, his body fitting into the cushions just as naturally as if he'd never been gone. "It is entirely preposterous, the amount of contact that goes on between you and Mycroft. Do you realize that?"

"It keeps you and John alive. That's all that should concern you," Lestrade stated, pointing a solemn finger at Sherlock. "And that bruise is giving you hell, but you're too damn proud to admit it."

"Yeah, well look what pride gave me today," Sherlock pointed to his face. "And all bruises will do is invoke pity. Stupid, bloody, buggering, absolutely useless pity." He enunciated every word as his temper finally flared up. He hadn't felt such rage in a good long while, and he hadn't even been able to conjure it when he knew that was all John had wanted to see from him. Instead he'd cried and whimpered. He should feel sick with himself. Instead he was angry at how he'd failed to do his primary duty: keep John safe.

"It's a good thing I called Molly to come help with this," Lestrade grumbled.

"No," Sherlock mumbled. "Please tell me she's not coming."

"You didn't seem to have a problem getting her to help you with the fall and all. Why is there an issue now?" 

"That's just it: she's done too much for me. Please call her back and tell her there's no need," Sherlock pleaded.

"Too late," came a soft voice from the doorway. Molly Hooper stuttered before she stated, 

"Although I don't really know why Greg called me over. I work with the dead, not the living." She blushed then, looking down slightly. "Sorry for that Sherlock."

"It's fine, Molly. I appreciate everything you've done for me."

"Anyway," Lestrade intersected. "Got to go see a man about monkey. Literally." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the Detective Inspector before they bid each other farewell, almost sad to think that he was missing a case. He'd missed three years' worth of cases, though, so one that likely had an utterly obvious outcome shouldn't bother him.

"So John didn't take your return very well, did he?" Molly asked. She held a first aid kit against her chest as she sat down beside Sherlock. As she unlatched and opened it, Mrs. Hudson walked in with two steaming mugs.

"Some tea, dears," she said as she set the cups on the table before them. She then gave the gentlest squeeze to Sherlock's hand, her eyes tearful as she tried to smile and reassure him. She didn't speak, but Sherlock knew that she was at least attempting to show sympathy. Wonderful. That was exactly what he needed.

"If everyone would stop boring me with rhetorical questions that have painfully obvious answers, it would be too soon," Sherlock spat as soon as Mrs. Hudson had left the room. Molly stopped fumbling through the kit upon hearing his comment, then shook her head and pulled out some gauze. After having dealt with him and helping him keep his existence and identity secret for three years, her skin had finally grown thicker in terms of the things he said to her.

Mrs. Hudson reentered the room, this time with a glass of ice water. She left that on the coffee table beside the tea. Molly thanked her, then dipped the gauze in the water and reached to press it to Sherlock's left cheek. He tried leaning away, but she snapped, "Now don't be a baby. Men are always so tough in action, but as soon as someone goes to help them they act like children running from cough syrup."

"Well, there is this thing called adrenaline, and it works in such a fashion that—."

"I don't want to hear another rant proving me wrong, Sherlock. I've come to find out I'm always wrong when you're around." She pressed the cold, wet cloth to his cheek with a little more force than he'd expected. He blinked hard, and she pulled away slightly. "Sorry."

"It's fine." His gaze lowered to watch the steaming cup of tea. "I'll be fine."

"We all know you'll be fine eventually. You always make that abundantly clear. But are you okay now?" she murmured. He sighed heavily, feeling lost and alone (though he quite obviously wasn't alone, it was merely a feeling). Before he could answer, Molly said, "You wanted to see him so terribly that you forgot to tell him that Moran was alive, didn't you?" He nodded. "Instead you wound up getting a punch or two."

"Got a little bit more than that," he grumbled. They exchanged glances, but she didn't catch onto what he meant by it. Instead he asked, "How're things going with . . . the Woman?"  
Molly blushed heavily as she continued to smooth away the soreness on his cheek with the cold compress before reaching into the kit for an alcohol swab to clean the blood off his lip and chin. Ever since his fall, he'd become reacquainted with a certain dominatrix who owed him quite a huge favor. She, Molly, and Mycroft had all worked alongside him to aid in his cover-up, and last he'd checked Molly and the Woman had had a special bond that couldn't exactly be ignored, not even by a dimwit like Anderson had he been there to witness it.  
"She's," Molly began with a smile, "unlike anyone I've ever been with." She sighed, reminiscing as it seemed. "Nothing is ever the same with her. I can't imagine ever getting bored with her around. And she's so intelligent . . . almost like a female version of you. Only it's—not that I imagine her to be you, or that she's your replacement—no. None of this is coming out correctly. She's better than you. No, that's worse! I meant to say—."

"It's quite alright, I believe I have the picture Molly," Sherlock stopped her. He smirked inwardly, then asked, "She treats you well." Molly nodded in agreement, then began to prod his waist. "No!" he cried, jerking away at the touch.

"There you go being a baby again. If you don't let me help you, John's going to come back here and feel guilty all over again for what he did," she said, ignoring his fussing as she untucked and started to unbutton his shirt.

"Why would he feel guilty? I deserved it," he grumbled.

"Why else would he have run out of here upset? Use that brilliant brain of yours," she remarked, picking more gauze from the first aid kit and dipping it into the water.

"Because he kissed me," Sherlock whispered.  
Molly stopped moving, then stared blankly into his face. "Come again?" she asked, her eyes steadily growing wider.

"He. Kissed. Me," Sherlock said slowly. In his mind, the scene that had played out prior to John's leaving hadn't quite sunk in yet. It did then, and he realized that kissing John back had felt oddly natural. But that sort of thing wasn't natural. Not for Sherlock. Sherlock was incapable of such a relationship. Wasn't he? Up until he met John, he'd thought he was incapable of having friends. His chest felt like it was about to implode from . . . what do people call these? Feelings? But what kind of feelings were they? There was the rapidness of the heartbeat, which meant his pulse had quickened and his breathing was no longer steady, and . . . "No," he muttered to himself. "No." He didn't want to admit it, but he knew that if he lifted a mirror to his face he'd see it: dilated pupils. All the chemistry was there, but the feelings? How could anyone like these feelings? They're dizzying, annoying, made one feel like death was a better option than suffering through them. He decided that he hated feelings, especially these ones. All they were doing was confusing him, and he couldn't afford to feel confused. John equals friend. At this moment, John may equal . . . what? What the hell did all of this mean? His frustration and sadness at how everything had gone completely against what he'd expected began building to the point that he almost felt his eyes growing hot with tears again. "Bugger!" he snapped at himself. What was he supposed to do?

Molly was still staring at him, and he felt like she was watching every emotion play across his face. "Obviously, this changes things a bit." And Sherlock knew that there was no way to change them back. These awful feelings were sticking around.

∞

John sat alone on a park bench, a firm grip planted on his cane. He had limped his way here and hadn't been able to move from this spot since the happening in his flat. For a time, he actually believed that it had never happened, that he'd imagined it all. Then he remembered the pressure of his lips on Sherlock's, and knew that there was no way he'd imagined that. Subconsciously he reached up to make sure the blood was indeed gone from his lips. He was further reassured that Sherlock had in fact reentered his life when he realized a black car following him all the way to the park. Of course. The British government was never truly far behind Sherlock Holmes.

John's cell rang. It had rung at least thrice now, and no matter how annoying the ringing had been, he'd simply silenced each call and refused to answer. This was its fourth time ringing, and he was quite fed up with the invasion of privacy. He sighed heavily and answered the phone at last.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft greeted him. "I—."

"No," John answered immediately. "No, I will not get in the car. No, I will not help you. With anything. No, I am not pleased that no one bothered to tell me that my flatmate had never died. And no, no, no, I will not talk about what happened and no amount of money or threatening will change that."

"Dr. Watson—."

"Just leave me alone," John growled, then hung up and pocketed his phone. He sighed again, closed his eyes, then rubbed his forehead.  
Just when he thought he was going to get some peace and quiet, a voice sounded to his left,  
"No."

"Oh for God's sake." John rolled his eyes as he realized Mycroft Holmes was now standing beside him. Had he been there the whole time? He didn't know, nor did he care to ask.

"Lestrade informed me that upon his arrival at the flat, that my brother was sitting on the floor with a red mark on his face and a bloody lip. Any idea how that may have gotten there, Dr. Watson?"

"Seriously, is there something going on between you and Greg, because it's rather strange how often the two of you are in touch?"

"Was it really necessary to punch my brother? Twice?" Mycroft's voice was steady, but its intensity revealed just how annoyed he was with John.

"I thought I told you I didn't want to talk."

"And then you kissed him?" He hissed the word, and John discovered exactly what Mycroft was miffed about.

"You're accusing me of toying with his feelings?" John said. Anger flooded his system once again. "Me? Toying with his feelings? Do I need to remind you of how many years I've suffered thinking that he was dead?"

"Honestly, the melodrama is getting quite ridiculous John."

"I lost my best friend!" John shouted. He dropped his cane as he shot upward and moved to stand toe to toe with Mycroft. "I lost the one person who made me feel normal again, and I never even got to tell him that. I never got to tell him just how much I really did value his friendship, and I never got to tell him—."

"What? That you loved him?" John's mouth clamped shut as his whole body began shaking again. This time, though, he didn't feel his leg give out. He couldn't bring himself to look at Mycroft's face as he realized that there was no point in arguing with him. He likely had already deduced everything about him and could access any information he wanted on him. "How utterly special. Your regrets are precious."

"What would you know about regrets? Everything turned out in your favor."

"Oh, I do wish you hadn't said that." Suddenly, Mycroft's umbrella swatted his knee with just enough force to knock John on his arse. John gasped at the impact from falling back onto the bench. "You do forget that I provided Moriarty with the information that he used to frame Sherlock. You think I don't regret that?"

"Sherlock's cell phone provided the recording proving his innocence. You know, the one he left on the rooftop? That eased the media rather quickly. And you knew he was alive, you must have," John retorted.

"That does not change the events that followed. You may have lost your friend, but I lost my brother as well. Granted, it was for a shorter time, but that didn't detract from the pain." John looked up at Mycroft then. "Believe it or not, those with the name Holmes are capable of feeling pain and remorse. You haven't even figured out why I am actually here." John's look turned to one of questioning. "Honestly, how on earth can my brother care for someone as dull as you? I'm here because I have to make sure you don't get shot in the head by some assassin."

That stumped John. "Sherlock faked his death to protect me. I thought he'd taken care of—."

"All except one. Sebastian Moran is the last to remain on the outs. He discovered that Sherlock Holmes had never died when Moriarty's accomplices started getting plucked off by an unknown force, and as soon as Sherlock found out Moran knew, my brother rushed to your side. And you punched him in the face."

"Why didn't he tell me?" John shot back. "Why couldn't any of you have told me anything? I would've given anything to know that I wasn't alone all this time. To know that I still had a chance to tell him everything I had wanted to tell him."

"You created your prison. You didn't have to be alone. And you did a damn fine job of telling him those things when you got the first chance," Mycroft snapped.  
John looked at him then, but didn't really see Mycroft. He was envisioning Sherlock's reddened, bloody, tearful face. He remembered the kiss, and how Sherlock had kissed back. He'd kissed him back. "Oh God," he whispered. He seemed to be whispering that a lot today.  
"I've wasted entirely too much time." John got up and felt ready to run back to 221B Baker Street.

"If he gets another injury of any sort, I'll take it out of your arse, Dr. Watson."

"Stop following me around," John ordered as he began briskly walking back to his flat, leaving the cane on the ground beside the bench.

"Well you can't go alone. Sherlock won't have that," Mycroft called after him. "I'll have someone else accompany you."

John ignored the mouthpiece of the British government until he noticed a woman walking beside him. She was wearing a dress that must've been the latest fashion, a head scarf, and wide sunglasses that covered almost half her face. "Can I help you?" he asked, a hint of frustration in his tone.

"Nice to see you again, darling. Still not gay, are you?" she replied. John coughed at the sound of that voice, surprised that he still remembered the sound of her voice.

"Wonderful. Why am I not surprised to find you still breathing?" John grumbled as Irene Adler kept up with him despite the fast pace and her high heels.

"Ah, so you missed me. I must say, when Sherlock Holmes calls in a favor that it's doubtful to be a pleasant one."

∞

Moran watched Dr. Watson race back to 221B Baker Street with that Adler woman at his side. He huffed, thinking of how easy it would've been just to shoot the doctor right then and get it over with. But no. He wanted to savor his revenge on Sherlock Holmes. The thought of the consulting detective made his stomach turn, but Holmes would get what was due for him. If this doctor meant so much to the detective that he was willing to feign death for him, this was going to be fun.

"An eye for an eye," he whispered to himself past his cigar. "Take what's dear to me, I'll do the same to you."


	2. And Wisped Away

When John entered the flat with Irene Adler in tow, he was greeted by a rather aggravated Molly. “What’s wrong?” he asked her. “Is Sherlock—?”

“Oh, he’s fine. Asleep. Refused to let me help him anymore, took two sleeping pills, and dropped on the couch,” she remarked. Then she reached for Irene and kissed her rather sweetly. “Hello, love.”

Adler smiled, embracing Molly as she said, “Hello, my sweet. Haven’t been misbehaving, have we?”

“No, mistress,” Molly answered, blushing as she said it.

“That’s my girl,” Irene said, kissing Molly again. 

John blinked twice, then shook his head. Honestly, could this day possibly get fuller with surprises? “Is there anything I need—?”

“Just . . . refrain from hurting him again,” Molly cut him off. “He hasn’t exactly had an easy time dealing with this. Your absence, mostly. He won’t tell you to your face, not without extreme coercion, but he has missed you.”

“And if you want to make him feel a little more relaxed,” Irene chimed in, “stroke here.” She ran a finger behind one of her ears to demonstrate.

“I don’t even want to know how you know that,” John said, rubbing his eyes.

“Good luck, darling. Don’t screw it up this time, or the wrath of the Ice Man will fall upon you,” Irene stated, clearly meaning Mycroft. Then the two ladies departed.

John sighed heavily, feeling his heartrate increase as he turned around and headed for the living room. Once there, he had to stop himself from exhaling too loudly at the sight of Sherlock Holmes lying on his—their—couch with his shirt unbuttoned and untucked. One long arm rested peacefully over his abdomen, the other drooped over the edge while long fingers brushed the floor. John stared at the serene picture for what seemed a long while. However, he couldn’t help but feel that the scene that he was witnessing was simply too serene to be real. “Sherlock?” he said. “Are you actually asleep?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’m not actually asleep.” 

“But the pills. Molly said—.”

“They were sugar pills. I swallowed them before she realized they were only placebos. Amazing how willing she was to believe that I would actually take two Ambien when I had never used sleeping drugs in the entirety of my existence.”

“Oh. Never?”

“Never.” With that, the consulting detective shot up out of his resting position and sat bolt upright on the sofa. He did this all in one, swift motion, but soon groaned and slid back against the cushions. “What use would I have with them? They only dull the senses and muddle the thought processes. I need my mind working at full speed and I’d rather take something that makes it work faster.”

“Of course.” John sat in his chair and watched Sherlock closely, monitoring the way he favored the areas John had punched and relocating the busted area on Sherlock’s lip. His stomach lurched at he was doubly reminded of what he’d done to the man he’d once considered his friend. “I owe you . . . so many apologies,” he admitted.

“Don’t be silly, John.” The detective said. “I suppose I did deserve at least one punch for leaving you so abruptly without warning.”

John didn’t know why, but the way Sherlock phrased his sentence made him chuckle. It was a breathy chuckle, one of relief more than a reaction to anything funny. When the two men made eye contact, John was still chuckling and Sherlock’s face was almost completely expressionless. His lack of expression was the only way John knew Sherlock wasn’t offended by John’s laughter. When John stopped chuckling, Sherlock’s hands clasped together and the detective looked down at his feet. Somehow John could see the gears turning in Sherlock’s head. “Sherlock?” John still couldn’t believe he was saying his former flatmate’s name aloud, in broad daylight, after having been deserted for three years.

“Hm.” He didn’t look up.

“What are you—?” John stopped, knowing he wasn’t going to get a straight answer if he asked what Sherlock was thinking about. He could’ve guessed at least one, maybe two things, but Sherlock was never one to have a single thought racing through his brain. So instead, he asked, “Why come back now? I know Moran’s out there, Mycroft told me. Why haven’t you chased him down and done away with him yet? I know that’s within your power.”

“I wanted to make sure that when I finally did come back . . .,” Sherlock paused, seeming at a loss for words. That struck John as odd, for Sherlock had very rarely ever been at a loss for words. At least that was the case when John had last spent time with him. “I didn’t want to come back to an empty flat. I didn’t want to lose you, and I knew I surely would if I didn’t return now.” John swore he’d stopped breathing in that moment. This was surely the most sentimental moment he’d ever shared with one Sherlock Holmes. Still, the detective’s gears continued to work themselves tirelessly. Before John could open his mouth to speak, Sherlock looked up inquisitively and asked, “Why?”

“What?” John asked.

“Why the . . . the . . .?” Just from the stutter, John could tell what Sherlock was asking. His heartbeat quickened at the thought of the kiss, and he wasn’t quite sure he was able to give a straight answer about that. Guess we’re both screwed when it comes to answering questions, John thought. Then Sherlock added, “The beatings I understand, but the . . . kiss? The kiss stumps me.”

“The fact that I kissed you at all or that I kissed you now?”

“Both.”

John had to think hard and fast about how he was going to answer that. He’d always suspected that Sherlock was a tad slow on emotional situations, but he couldn’t possibly be this naïve. “I cared for you. I continued to care even after I thought you’d died. I never stopped caring for you. And when you endanger yourself, leave me out of the loop, or are in pain in any way, it hurts me as well.” Sherlock’s expression was blank. “Does that confuse you?” Sherlock nodded. “Honestly, you know the chemistry of love and the like. How can this confuse you?”

“Love, John?” Sherlock stopped him. Their eyes locked, and all other noise (what little there was) faded into static. The moment seemed so cliché, but John honestly couldn’t hear or see anything past Sherlock as he realized that he’d admitted to loving his flatmate a little less subtly than he’d intended. “Is that . . . really how you feel?” Their eyes remained fixed on each other as John nodded. He didn’t know what to expect from Sherlock, but he certainly didn’t expect to hear a sigh of what appeared to be relief. Sure enough, that was what he heard from the detective. “I—.”

“What?” John asked hastily. Sherlock’s gaze started wandering around the room, looking everywhere except at John. “What, Sherlock?” For once, he was the impatient one.

“I . . . don’t understand these feelings,” Sherlock said, frustrated and standing up. He began pacing. Now this was a familiar scene to John: a frustrated, pacing Sherlock Holmes trying to make sense of a case. Only, this case was a bit different from any one that he’d worked on before. At least it was different than the ones he’d worked on with John at his side. “Why does that make them feel . . . satisfied? I can’t even put my finger on the proper word. Shouldn’t this leave me unsettled? I don’t know. I’ve never felt any of this—.”

“Never?” John interrupted him. “You’ve never felt like this before? Never . . . felt?”

“Not like this,” Sherlock said as he stopped and turned to John. “John, I didn’t have friends until you. What makes you think I would’ve had a relationship?”

“You call this a relationship?”

“I kissed you back, didn’t I?” John felt like his next movements were completely involuntary; getting up, stepping into Sherlock, and pulling his head down to John’s so that their lips met felt as natural as breathing. His fingers tangled in Sherlock’s hair, and the giddiness he’d felt upon realizing John’s feelings were requited doubled as he tasted his detective’s mouth once again. His detective. Sherlock was his, and John couldn’t help but want everyone to know that. When Sherlock’s hands encircled John’s waist, John began pushing him backwards until he had Sherlock pinned into the sofa cushions with John on top of him. Careful to avoid the sore region of his abdomen, John ran his hands over Sherlock’s chest and sides, familiarizing himself with the feel of Sherlock’s body as his tongue probed Sherlock’s mouth. When he heard a moan escape Sherlock’s throat, he felt himself grow hard and kissed his way down Sherlock’s chin and neck. He stopped, pulled aside the collar of Sherlock’s shirt, and sucked on the soft skin just above his detective’s collarbone. Sherlock’s moan deepened and John felt his whole body shiver beneath him. He sucked just enough to leave a mark, then kissed his way back up to Sherlock’s mouth. Only when Sherlock’s hands began grabbing hungrily at John’s waist did John groan.

Neither of the men noticed the opening and closing of the flat door. They were too focused on John’s hips grinding against Sherlock’s to realize that Mrs. Hudson had entered the living area. They did, however, notice her gasping and half shrieking at the sight of Dr. John Watson and  
world famous Sherlock Holmes snogging and groping each other on the couch. The two men almost shrieked with her when they finally recognized they had been intruded upon (though she was their landlady and it couldn’t count as a serious intrusion). She turned around and scuttled back into the kitchen before they could give a word of explanation. “I’m so sorry, dears.”

“No, don’t apologize. We shouldn’t have—.”

“Oh, don’t be silly you two. I was expecting to happen upon this a great deal sooner. With all of your domestics it was only a matter of time.” They heard her heading for the door when she called back, “But do leave a hat or a sock on the doorknob next time.” And with that, she left just as quickly as she came.

Before either of them could do anything else, they burst out laughing. John collapsed onto Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John as they laughed at their situation. John reveled in the feel of Sherlock’s chest gyrating with laughter, loved the vibration of his throat caused by the deep baritone. Sherlock ran a soft hand over John’s hair, and John closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of his detective. “John?”

“Sherlock?” John propped himself up on his arms, looking down at Sherlock.

There was a pause before Sherlock gestured to the noticeable mound that had formed in his nether regions. “That’s never happened as a result of something like this.”

“Never?”

“How many times are you going to ask that today?” Sherlock asked, furrowing his brow and smirking up at John.

“None if you shush and kiss me again.” Smirking, Sherlock tilted his head upward and seized John’s lips once more. Their kisses were much softer than the ones before, and their caresses more intimate and less rushed. Their hands roved each others’ torsos, sometimes evoking sighs of pleasure and other times causing deep groans to ripple from their throats. One of Sherlock’s hands slipped up the doctor’s arm, his fingers finding and twining through John’s. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, his free hand cradling Sherlock’s face as they continued to kiss.

John would’ve been quite content to continue like this for a while longer, but Sherlock made it very clear that he’d grown impatient with this slow pace. The doctor discovered this when Sherlock sat up quickly, placed John’s legs around his waist accordingly, and stood up with the doctor held firmly against his chest. “Sherlock!”

“Your room or mine?” Sherlock asked as John tightened his arms around the detective’s neck.

“You’re going to hurt yourself. Your bruise—.”

“Nonsense.” 

Sherlock kissed him hard on the lips, which made the doctor considerably more pliable. When Sherlock pulled away, John said, “Yours.” 

Without further questioning, Sherlock marched them to his old room. For good measure, he kicked the door shut. John supposed it was to avoid any more interruptions. However, his thoughts scattered as soon as he found himself tossed onto Sherlock’s bed with Sherlock climbing hastily on top of him. The sight of his once shocked, now possessive flatmate was, to say the least, distracting. Sherlock was especially distracting when his lips were almost smothering John with hard, needy kisses. John’s hands sank into what was left of Sherlock’s curls, slightly sad that they weren’t as long as they used to be. The feeling of having Sherlock pressed close to him, so close that almost every part of them was touching, made John forget his sadness altogether. In that moment, he was happy, overjoyed to have his friend back.

His best friend. Not his only friend, but certainly his closest. And you can’t get much closer than this, he thought as he felt Sherlock’s arms enveloping him. Both gasped when John found himself grinding his pelvis upwards into Sherlock’s their already apparent erections becoming even moreso. When Sherlock gasped, he took the brief moment to glance around his old room. “You’ve been sleeping in my room.”

It was a statement, not a question. John ignored it, wrapping his own arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulling him back in for a deeper kiss. Their bodies melded together once more. Before John could encourage him to shut up and get on with what they were doing, Sherlock sat up and started to look around again. He started to speak, but John stopped him with, “Yes, I’ve been sleeping here since you supposedly died, now shut up and—.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“What—?”

“I was actually looking at how well you kept the room despite my having been gone. You haven’t even moved your things in—.”

“Shut up and take off your shirt.”

“Certainly.” Sherlock began unbuttoning his shirt, his long and elegant fingers suddenly clumsy and fumbling with the smallish buttons. John would have called it nervousness, but he remembered well what a nervous Sherlock looked like. He’d look like a cross between bored and murderous if he were nervous, but Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, was actually showing signs of excitement. It was actually . . . cute. Adorable. And it was causing him to take too damn long. John reached up, grasped Sherlock’s shirt, and ripped it open. Buttons scattered and Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “That was my shirt.”

“You have others,” John said as he shoved the cloth off Sherlock’s torso before running his hands over his flatmate’s fair skin.

Sherlock actually groaned at the feeling of John’s hands on him. The man’s pale body shuddered beneath John’s hands as one of Sherlock’s caressed John’s left. Sherlock’s hand traveled down John’s arm, his other hand fiddling with the hem of John’s jumper as he said, “Your turn.” Sherlock began removing John’s jumper, lifting the warm, soft cloth over his doctor’s head. Yes, John believed Sherlock thought of him as his. In a way, Sherlock always had. When the jumper was removed, Sherlock was greeted with another long-sleeved shirt. After ripping that one over John’s head, almost smothering John in the process, Sherlock was glaring down at an undershirt. “Just how many shirts are necessary, John?”

“Last one, I swear,” he replied to his frustrated friend. True enough, the undershirt was the last layer that remained between John’s chest and Sherlock’s. Once that barrier was gone, John surprised the consulting detective by flipping him onto his back and climbing on top of him.

“John!” Sherlock said his name as if it were a curse word, but his mouth was soon smothered by a rather eager kiss. John’s head spun as Sherlock’s long arms circled him again, crushing the doctor’s body against his. The heat radiating from their exposed flesh made John sweat, and he grew even more frustrated with their trousers. He could feel their erections grinding into each other, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.

John managed to slip from Sherlock’s rough embrace and work off the detective’s trousers and pants. He paused, crawling up Sherlock’s body, dropping kisses on various patches of soft, fair skin. Sherlock’s groans made him harder, if that were possible. The delicious sounds coming from his mouth were only silenced by John’s mouth, but even then he could hear them muffled against his tongue and lips.

He could feel Sherlock trying to work John’s trousers off, but as with the buttons on his now lost shirt his hands were clumsy. John swiftly pinned Sherlock’s hands to the pillows with hand, Sherlock bucking upwards into John in response. The sound that escaped John’s lips could not have been human. He found himself not even bothering to pull his trousers down, but instead reaching through his undone zip to release his own member. Now holding both off Sherlock’s arms down completely, John proceeded to thrust his erection against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock gasped at the sensation, eyes shutting for just a moment before meeting John’s. When John leaned down to kiss him, Sherlock began to match his rhythm. Their bodies burned, sweat and heat and sighs and groans filling the air as they thrust against each other. John ran his hands from Sherlock’s wrists down his arms, over his shoulders, across his chest. Sherlock bucked harder when one of John’s hands reached between them to encourage their twin erections. John found his head being squeezed between Sherlock’s hands as Sherlock crushed his lips against John’s. They moved faster, John moving his hand in time with their thrusts. When they finally came, both strained against each other before laying limp on the bed, John on top of Sherlock.

John listened to Sherlock’s heartbeat, heard every breath escape his lungs. He slipped his hand upward, finding Sherlock’s and squeezing it. Sherlock returned the gesture, wrapping his other arm around John’s shoulders. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t care what the feeling is. I want it. I want all of it.” Sherlock’s hand left John’s as he reached for his doctor’s face. Turning his face upwards towards Sherlock’s, John saw that the detective’s eyes were watered ever so slightly. “I want you.”

John smiled, sliding up to kiss the glaze away from Sherlock’s eyes. And that was likely the closest John was going to get in terms of an ‘I love you’ from Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DID IT! I MADE THE THING! Now I can get to the more comfortable part of writing fanfiction.


	3. Your Grey Matter Brings You Home

They had fallen asleep in each other’s arms that night. Not unusually, it had taken Sherlock forever to fall asleep. Though he felt the need to get up and rekindle his search for Moran, he didn’t want to leave John. The doctor was curled into him, his arms wrapped possessively around Sherlock’s waist as though he expected him to disappear at any moment. Sherlock knew that feeling all too well. John had tried to stay awake with him, but had finally given in to sleep around 23:30 hours. It was 01:15 hours and Sherlock was finally feeling weariness creep up on him.

John moved ever so slightly, his breathing hitching. Sherlock studied his partner’s scrunched face, and without drawing any other conclusions decided that it was a nightmare. He ran his hand over John’s face, smoothing the ugly lines and caressing his doctor’s cheeks until his breathing returned to normal. Then he drew his doctor closer, winding his arms and legs around the smaller man while pulling the duvet up to their chins as he settled into a more comfortable position for sleep. He sighed against John’s forehead, the feeling of . . . whatever it was sinking deeper and penetrating every empty space in his chest. And this time, he liked it.

∞

He had picked the lock to the flat, slipping in without making so much as a sound. Moran eased his way up the steps, already smelling a kettle of tea brewing. Removing the gun and silencer from his coat pocket, he pieced them together and quietly snuck up the stairs. When he could see that the kitchen area was empty, he dared to move closer into the flat.

Staking out the flat had been easy. Waiting until Sherlock was vulnerable hadn’t been as easy as he had wanted. But he had succeeded. He had made his way into the kitchen while the detective was still asleep and the doctor was up and preparing for another day. The old woman was busy with her records and her own kettle of tea and wouldn’t suspect anything until it was too late.

He raised the gun and pointed it at the doorframe as the kettle whistled. His expression grew cold as the good doctor rounded the corner and was met with the intruder. Dr. Watson stared at him briefly, the threat to his life suddenly registering as his eyes fell on the gun in Moran’s hand. His reaction was minimal, which was fitting for a man who had seen battle. Moran was able to note the slightest widening of the doctor’s eyes, the tiniest jaw clench, and the smallest straightening of the spine. All of these things made Moran’s features colder, but inside he positively on fire with rage and excitement. Dr. Watson was a soldier, but so was Sebastian Moran. And Moran’s specialty had been killing, not saving.

“Take it off,” he ordered softly, gesturing to the kettle. The doctor’s moves were calculated and slow. He looked as though he expected a bullet at any time. But no. Moran wanted the detective to see this. He wanted him to feel the agony, wanted him to wish it was his flesh the bullet was tearing. When Dr. Watson had silenced the kettle, Moran ordered, “To the living room. Now.”

The doctor didn’t try to run, which pleased Moran. That wouldn’t have been as pleasing as spilling his blood at the exact moment. Following him into the room, the gun steadily aimed at the doctor’s back, Moran could feel his heartrate increase. He struggled to keep his breathing even as the stopped in the middle of the room and Dr. Watson turned to face him.

“What now?” the good doctor asked quietly, as if knowing that screaming would be of no use.

“Have a seat. Then call for him.” The doctor prepared to protest, but Moran squeezed the trigger ever so slightly, and that was enough to silence him. “Don’t worry. It’s you I want, dear Watson. I’d just prefer an audience.” His heartrate climbed even more as the doctor began to visibly shake. Anger and excitement: the greatest combination he had ever felt next to the variety of things his Jim had made him feel. The doctor sat, moving just as slowly as he had done before. His anxious gaze pierced Moran as he ordered the doctor to call him one more time.

This time, he obeyed.

∞

Sitting bolt upright and stiff as a statue, John reluctantly called for Sherlock. His hands quivered. His chest heaved, and his mind raced. It was taking everything he had not to run at Moran and take him down. The only thing stopping him was the fear for Sherlock’s life. Plus, he knew he wouldn’t survive the assault.

When Sherlock entered the room, wearing only his old robe pajama bottoms, John could see his face fall. He could see his eyes darken and his fists clench. He could also see his shoulders tremble just the slightest bit, caving ever so much despite the intense control the detective had over himself. For a split second, John could see Sherlock’s bottom lip quiver. But just as soon as he picked up on it, it stopped.

“Hello, Holmes.” Moran’s voice was morbidly rueful as a smile crept onto his lips.

“Moran.” The anxiety in Sherlock’s voice betrayed his attempts at trying to maintain some semblance of composure.

“Painful, isn’t it. To see the one you love have a gun pointed at his head.” Moran was not asking. He knew this was agonizing for the both of them. Sherlock especially. Even he could see that. But Sherlock said nothing. He kept his eyes transfixed on Moran. John knew that if the detective risked a glance at him, that paper-thin composure would shred. “Your face is precious. One would never know that you were the man who left a criminal network in tatters. Shame, really. I know Jim had a special place in his heart for you. If only he were here to see you so . . . sentimental.”

John’s eyes flashed to Moran’s and he saw the faintest sheen of tears in the corner of the gunman’s eyes. “Oh God . . . .” He should’ve known. This wasn’t just revenge on Sherlock. This ran deeper. He knew he was doomed then.

“Don’t you pity me, Dr. Watson. You’ll get what’s coming to you.”

“Please,” Sherlock interrupted. John and Sherlock locked eyes for the briefest of moments. As expected, Sherlock lost his composure. “Please, I’m the one who killed Moriarty—.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He pulled the trigger on himself. I just want you to know what it feels like.” Moran’s gaze grew intense as his dark eyes bored into John’s. “Watson knows. Don’t you Watson? What it’s like to watch your beloved take his own life? My Jim’s agony was short-lived, but Holmes. Holmes fell. I’ll bet that fall tore you inside out, doctor.”

John wasn’t aware that tears had escaped. He wasn’t aware that he was gripping the arms of the chair so hard that the wood was squealing. He was only aware of how terribly he wanted to lunge forward and shut the bastard up.

He didn’t get the chance. A flurry of blue darted out from the corner of his eye just as Moran pulled the trigger and everything went hazy.

∞

“NO!” Sherlock screamed as he knocked Moran to the ground, angling his descent just enough so that the bastard’s head would come against the fireplace. There was a definitive thud of skull meeting brick, but that wasn’t enough for Sherlock. He wrenched the gun from Moran’s hand and tossed it aside, his hands reaching for the gunman’s throat as he positioned himself on top of him. Before he could get a firm grip, however, Moran came to his senses just enough to slug Sherlock in the face. Sherlock slammed his fist into Moran’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. However before could get in another punch, Moran had flipped him onto his back, returning the previous action by slamming the detective’s head into brick. Sherlock saw a mixture of several colors and black spots before he heard a second muffled gunshot. Sherlock could’ve sworn that Moran had killed him until he felt the man slump off of him. The detective recovered just enough to see that Moran had been shot in the spine just below the neck. He’d died with his eyes wide open, fixed on Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced up at Mrs. Hudson, who dropped the revolver she’d been holding and helped Sherlock to his feet. “You didn’t think I’d be unarmed after all the trouble that Adler woman caused, now, would you?”

“Call Lestrade,” he begged, slipping out of her grip and moving towards John. John wasn’t moving. His doctor wasn’t moving. “The paramedics. Call someone!”

“I’ve already phoned them. Now let’s staunch the bleeding.” She grabbed a blanket from the couch and began pressing it to John’s wound. He’d been shot just below the lung.

Sherlock felt the doctor’s neck for a pulse. It was there. It wasn’t strong, but it was there. The doctor was unconscious, but he wasn’t dead. No amount of reasoning could have stopped Sherlock from releasing the sob he had been fighting since the first shot had rang out though. He was barely aware of allowing his forehead to touch John’s. He was barely aware of Mrs. Hudson rubbing his back, of the paramedics and the Yarders coming in. He was hardly aware of himself even when they took John to hospital. He lost track of so much time that he couldn’t even recall getting to the hospital waiting room or how long he’d been sitting in an uncomfortable chair with Mrs. Hudson holding his hand. He was barely aware of Molly and the Woman coming to wait alongside him, of Lestrade and Mycroft making a brief appearance before leaving for their other duties. If someone had asked him what time it was, he likely would have told them it was 08:34 hours. That was the last time he remembered being consciously aware of, the last digits he’d seen before realizing the Moran had even set foot in his flat.

“Mr. Holmes,” a voice whispered. He looked up at the nurse who’d spoken. “Dr. Watson will recover, but it will be a slow process.” He tuned out the rest, already aware of what had been damaged. The only thing that interested him was his doctor’s room number.

“Let me see him.” Even he could hear the emptiness in his voice.

“I’m afraid he’s not awake—.”

“I don’t care. I want to be with him.”

∞

John woke up to the familiar sound of beeps and machines. This was not a welcome sight, but the pain in his torso kept him rooted right where he was. He opened his eyes to assess his situation, reading each monitor and each prescription carefully before looking at the rest of the room. His eyes fell on a tall, dark, and lanky form slumped in the chair beside the bed. A long fingered hand covered the detective’s forehead and eyes, his elbow resting on the chair’s arm. “Sherlock?” John asked.

The detective looked up slowly, his eyes red rimmed and set with bags under them. The detective waited a few moments, as if waiting for the reality of John being awake to set in. When it seemed to, John was met with a shaking Sherlock on his knees beside the bed, his hands clasped tightly around John’s right palm. John watched as Sherlock pressed a kiss to each of his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he muttered over and over again.

“I must be dead,” John said, motioning for Sherlock to get up and sit on the bed. “You’re saying you’re sorry more in two days than I think I ever heard you say before all of this.”

“And I’ll say it every day until you know just how awful I feel.”

“Don’t threaten me like that. That’s not you.” John looked up at Sherlock, then his eyes glimpsed the light outside. “How’d you manage to get them to let you stay here at night?”

“Mycroft. How else?”

“I wouldn’t have put it past you to break in,” John said, smiling up at his detective. That lightened Sherlock’s grim facial expression. “Come here.” John lifted an arm, inviting Sherlock to lie down with him.

“Your injuries—.”

“I don’t care. Come here.” Sherlock obeyed, curling up into the crook of John’s shoulder. He was careful to avoid the wound, despite how difficult it was for the both of them to fit in the hospital bed. Nevertheless, he finally let himself relax against John. John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, running his other hand, though stiff and pained from the drip needle, over the detective’s dark locks. “Is he dead?”

“You think I’d let him live?” John smiled at Sherlock’s reply. “He was the last.”

“You mean this whole Moriarty business is over and done with?”

“Yes.”

“Good. ‘Cause I want nothing more than to get back to where we started yesterday afternoon.” He ran a finger behind Sherlock’s ear, and the detective practically melted against him. He hadn’t thought it possible for Sherlock to relax that much. He could even feel Sherlock smiling against his chest. Remind me to thank Irene later, he noted to himself.

“Me too.”

“Just promise me one thing.” Sherlock glanced up at him at that. “The next time you fake your death for a case, let me in on it. Then maybe it won’t take you three more years to return to me.”

“I don’t intend to die anytime soon, but I do promise on one condition.”

“And what might that be?”

“Kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is finished. This was much easier to write than the smutty bit. I know my weaknesses.
> 
> Here's hoping it doesn't suck. Thanks for sticking with me.


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